


if my yesterday is a disgrace, tell me that you still recall my name

by xheartoflifex



Category: One Direction (Band), Real Person Fiction
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Prostitution, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:23:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xheartoflifex/pseuds/xheartoflifex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s so much that he needs to say - so much he needs to tell Liam so that he doesn’t get the wrong idea about <em>whatever</em> this is. Zayn is just a prostitute, and Liam is just like every other guy who comes in and leaves the money on the nightstand. Or, well, maybe not, because usually the money is payment for them having sex, and that's exactly what they <em>haven't</em> been doing.</p><p>He’s not Pretty Woman, he doesn’t need to be rescued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> IDK WHAT THIS IS.
> 
> It's extremely self-indulgent, shhh, and is the product of looking at too many pictures of Zayn in leather jackets and wondering about stuff like this, yeah. That's me. The amount of chapters is still in question, but so far it's nine because that's what I have planned, okay.
> 
> Title comes from Lights' song 'Cactus in the Valley'.

This is not a fairytale. 

It’s not a love story, bound by the tragic tales of a damsel in distress in need of rescuing and her heroic prince lost in the world until he found her. There’s no bad guys to blame, no evil stepmothers to take the fall for the problems, no fatal flaw that makes everything that much more understandable. Maybe it’d be better if there was, a tragic explanation of why things are the way they are.

But there isn’t. The truth is easier to come by than the fictional tales of those that fill the pages of the dog-eared, loosely bound books that Zayn keeps safely tucked away under his mattress, hidden from the outside world that would be as cruel to them as it is to everything else that doesn’t deserve it. The truth - his truth - it’s not a fairytale, but a real story, one like hundreds of others out there. His father a wealthy investment broker, unaware of the fact that he had ever fathered a child during a drunken night of lustful temptation away from his real family, his mother an addict who worked in the red light district and raised the child she never wanted in homeless shelters and back alleyways until she finally overdosed when Zayn was seven. As much as he would’ve rathered to stayed on the streets at that point in time, more than comfortable with his own company than anything else, it wasn’t going to work, for there were too many good-hearted social workers out there with a need to help him, a need to fix him. 

Only problem was that they didn’t exactly know how to. How do you fix something beyond repair? He bounced around from foster home to foster home, staying a few months here and there. There were the do-gooders, the ones who had only adopted the fuck ups and were intent on bragging to everyone they met how nurturing they were to their family, but in reality never actually did a thing. There were the ones who were just looking for a way to pad their wallets with the fat checks from the state, providing only the basics to the kids so they could make as much of a profit as possible. More often than not, he’d run away in the dead of night, his skin feeling too tight for his own body, his lungs aching to breathe as he felt like he truly couldn’t. 

He was never wanted, and it was clear from the moment that he was born. Whether he was wanted for money or for status or an ego boost, Zayn had a way of realizing that there really was nothing that he could do for himself, nothing he was good at. His mother’s death should have provided him with new opportunities, a new page turning in his book to start again, but all it did was reinforce everything he had come to know. It’s not until he’s fourteen, currently living with the single father who he still can’t understand why he would want to adopt a young kid considering how he seemed to fit the status quo bachelor idea. But when he woke late one night, his thoughts sluggish from sleep, eyes bleary as he blinked into the darkness to see the older man standing above his bed, an odd gleam in his eyes as he hushed him. He wanted to protest, but his voice died on his lips, heart pounding heavily as one hand clamped over his mouth, the other sinking beneath the band of his sweats. 

This was the one house he doesn’t run away from, staying there for the next four years until he was officially released from the system and allowed to be on his own. Why he didn’t run when it made the most sense to out of all, he still can’t quite figure out. Maybe he was ashamed, knowing that he was damaged even more than he was before, knowing that no one will ever take him seriously from now one. Or maybe there was something twistedly appealing about knowing that for once, there was finally a value in him. There was someone who desired him, even if it was only for sex. So he stayed with the man, the one who provided a roof over his head, three square meals a day, clothes and heat. And in return, he did what he was told to, no complaints.

It’s an easy way of life.


	2. Chapter 2

_Her name was Demetria Lovato. Demi, to be precise, as she eventually told him, there was only one person out there who could can get away with calling her Demetria. They meet by accident. Zayn crashing into her one evening as he was trying to duck out of sight of the cops who seemed to suddenly be swarming the park where he had been staying. It’s August, which meant it was warm enough that he could stay outside, only using the shelters for food and clothes when he needed them. But the last thing that he wanted right now was to get caught and taken in. He’s been on his own for about two weeks, and he likes it, even if it is a bit harder than he thought._

_Half of his attention was over his shoulder, so when he slammed into someone else, he ended up falling back hard onto his ass, wincing for a moment before he looked, blinking at the woman standing over him. She was wearing lots of make-up, dark lipstick and heavy eyeliner, her giant gold earrings glinting under the light of the street lamp above them, and for a moment Zayn can’t come up with anything to say. “Watch where you’re fucking going, kid,” she muttered, offering him a hand and pulling him to his feet like it’s no trouble at all. She pulled her leather jacket around her tighter, furrowing her eyebrows and scowling at him as he didn’t say anything at all, just looked back at her. “What’s your problem?”_

_With a shake of his head, he smiled lightly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to. Have a nice evening,” he offered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, before trying to push past her. Before he can move, though, there’s a hand wrapped around his wrist, red manicured fingernails pressing down lightly into the skin. When he looked up, her expression had gone from angry to questioning, almost doubtful. She asked him where he was going, a tip of her head as her dark hair spilling across her shoulder as she looks at him curiously. “Nowhere important,” he answered quietly with a shrug as he looked back at her. Honestly._

_The sex ended up being lousy, long limbs spread out on a dingy mattress in a cheap hotel a few blocks away that she paid for in cash, but ultimately seemed like neither of them were truly into it. But she was a beautiful woman that he couldn’t turn down, and it gave Zayn something else to do than wander the streets under the inky black sky, the only things he could hear for miles being his own thoughts._

_The clock on the bedside table read 2:12, meaning that Zayn should get up from the bed where he was currently too comfortable to move and get dressed and get the hell out of there. He watched for a moment as Demi got dressed, looking at the tattoos that littered her arms and neck, suddenly curious to know all the stories behind every one of them. She looked up from zipping her boots, a crooked smile on her face, at which point Zayn realizes that he’s been caught, she knew she was staring. She leaned into kiss him once again instead, though. “Easy, tiger,” she murmured, before her expression softened slightly, pulling her shirt over her head and reaching for her purse. “Stay here for the night. You look like you could use a good night’s sleep,” she said, and Zayn can tell from the tone of her voice that it’s better if he just agrees with her and take the room for what it’s worth, and not argue with her. He relaxed back against the pillow, pulling the threadbare blanket over his waist and watching curiously as she left a small card on the bedside table. He glanced at it, before back at her._

_“Tomorrow, come on down there. If you don’t show up, I’ll hunt you down,” she said, pointing one of her long nails in his face, and he already knew that she meant it. With a laugh, he flopped back against the mattress, burying his head into the pillow as he heard the door shut behind him. He picked his head up, just for a moment to glance at the crisp white card, no bigger than the palm of his hand with the name ‘X Factor’ scrawled out in silver script. A club. He put the card down, only wondering what the hell she could possibly want with him at a club for a quick second before his head hit the pillow, falling asleep instantly._

Zayn didn’t even know that brothels still existed until he realizes that he’s working at one, but hey, at least it meant that he was safe and off the streets and had a steady source of income coming in. Perhaps the best part is that Demi makes sure all of her boys and girls are taken care of and safe, apparently with the help of her eyes on the street as she puts it, but never says anything else. She runs the club with her sharp tongue, taking care of everyone and fucking up anyone who tries to ruin it, and it’s an odd feeling, but it’s the first time that Zayn has ever felt like he’s belonged anywhere.

“I can’t stay tonight,” Harry says after he finishes fucking Zayn, dropping the condom in the garbage and pulling a beer from the small fridge in the corner of the room, cracking the top and taking a swig from it, before he sits back down on the bed, drawing a finger up and down over Zayn’s side lightly. Rolling over with a roll of his eyes, Zayn pushes himself upward, curling himself up in the other’s boy’s lap and smirking as he plays with one of his curls. Harry Styles is a barista in a coffee shop across town, although whenever the two of them have the chance to, he tells Zayn of how he sincerely wants to go back to school and finish his degree in music. He’s been a regular at the club for a while now, always coming in before the crowds will start to build and always asking for Zayn, which makes it that much more enjoyable for him. Most guys like Harry, young, wild, bright eyed but hiding something underneath - they go for the girls, typically Cece or Jade. They’re small and fragile with curves in all the right places, but ever since he came in, he wanted Zayn. Because he’s the first person Zayn sees, before having to deal with whoever else might show up in the midst of the night, and sometimes that’s the only things that gets him through the rest of his shift.

“Really, why’s that?” he asks, as if it’s no big deal that he’s naked sitting in the lap of another man. This usually doesn’t happen, the small talk. The friendliness, but - well, that’s what Harry is to him. The closest thing he has to a friend. Someone who talks to him, treats him like he’s normal.

With a smile, Harry laughs. “Because I have to be home to welcome my boyfriend, that’s why,” he replies, tracing the pattern of one of Zayn’s many tattoos with the pad of his thumb, before furrowing his eyebrows. “You’re too skinny.”

With a frustrated sigh, Zayn climbs off of the other boy, flopping back against the mattress and running his hand through his hair. He stretches an arm over his head, realizing that he needs to get dressed because once Harry leaves, he needs to be back out on the floor, but he’s comfortable. Harry looks down at him, an amused look on his face. “You know I’m right. You should look into getting out of here,” he says, running his index finger over Zayn’s ribs, before he grabs for his clothes, pulling his pants on in a quick movement. He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket though, shoving two twenties underneath the oversized book that sits on the nightstand, a permanent fixture.

Zayn squares his jaw, swatting at Harry’s hand as he starts on with ‘ _the speech_ ’. “Quit it. I’m fine here.” He shrugs, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand, scratching at the back of his neck. “I don’t need anything else in life, if you think about it. Lovato pays me a healthy percentage, I have more than a lot of people out there do - an income that provides me with heat, shelter, water. Not to mention that I get the luxury of your dick, which makes this worth it on it’s own,” he replies lightly, enough that Harry rolls his eyes but smiles, looking for his shirt. Taking a deep breath, Zayn laughs quietly. “Does this boyfriend of yours even know that you spend your evenings playing fuck the prostitute?” Zayn asks, thinking back to the one or two times that Harry mentioned his boyfriend, some mouthy guy with an ass that can’t be beat.

Harry’s pulling on his jacket when he gives Zayn a grin, his dimples prominent this time more than any other time. “He thinks it’s hot, actually. He wants to come and watch at some point. Something the whole looking but not being able to touch turns him on more than anything,,” he says with a snort, shrugging his shoulders as he fixes his jacket. “I’ll go home and call Louis and tell him over the phone about how I fucked you, and he’ll be coming in his pants before I’m even done speaking.”

As Harry steps out of the room, closing the door behind him, Zayn mumbles to himself about what a fucked up relationship that must be.

He’s happy that Harry has someone, though.


	3. Chapter 3

He showers quickly, making sure he doesn’t use all the hot water unless he wants to get an earful from the girls. After dressing in a thin white v-neck and black jeans that hug in all the right places, ones that take him a bit longer to get on than most people would probably think, he runs a hand through his hair, tousling it slightly and going outside. It’s not nearly as much effort as some of the people here put into their appearances, craving the attention where they can get it, as they’re all striving for that the effortless yet easily fuckable look that will make them the sale . Zayn knows he doesn’t need to put much work into his, seeing that it’s a look that he can wear without really doing anything. Demi’s waiting for him, perched against the bar and tapping her fingernails against the veneered wood. He walks up and presses the two twenty dollar bills that Harry had left into her palm, and she hands him his cut in return. The twenty isn’t much, but it’s more than he would’ve been making anywhere else.

She doesn’t say anything else, though, just waves her hand along, and that’s enough to know that he’s on the clock. He walks to other end of the bar, nodding a greeting to the bartender - Niall, he’s pretty sure his name is - a quiet, Irish bloke who’s only interested in the money, not in the rest of what this job brings along. Danielle and Eleanor are leaning against the bar, their eyes fixed to one of the booths in the corner as they whisper to each other. “What’s going on?” he asks earnestly, coming to stand next to them.

Eleanor picks her head up, offering him a bright smile that would shine anywhere else in the world but simply looks out of place here, and it’s at moments like this that Zayn hates this place, hates this entire world, hates the fact that there’s people who have been dragged into this like he has. “Danielle was just saying that that one,” she replies, pointing the table very obviously. “She said...” Within a matter of moments, her face crumples into a look of confusion, before she elbows Danielle in the side. “What did you say again?”

“All I said was that he looks like he doesn’t belong here with all the other pigs,” she replied, looking back at Eleanor, before over at Zayn and shrugging. He waits a moment, drawing his eyebrows together in confusion at what she means by saying that, before looking over at the table, and for a split second, he forgets to breathe. The table is in the corner, dark and only illuminated by one of the shady violet lights that hang overhead, making it difficult to really see anything, but as soon as he sees him, he understands what Danielle is saying immediately. Because he doesn’t look like he should be here, but instead on the front page of a newspaper or the cover of a glossy magazine, shaking hands with someone important for doing something charitable and doing it out of the goodness of his heart and not because he wants the recognition. “But looking like that, I can bet you he’s got money, and loads of it. I mean, can you imagine that, getting him into bed and giving him the ride of his life? Think about the power, the status, the reputation, everything,” he can hear Danielle whispering to Eleanor next to him, and right now he just wants her to shut up, because he doesn’t care and he doesn’t even want to think about someone talking about this guy like he’s just some piece of property considering he reminds Zayn of a damn puppy, and it’s not until the other man looks up that he realizes he’s been staring.

They meet eyes for a moment, before Zayn looks away, walking behind the end of the bar and doing whatever it takes to focus on something other than looking back up. “What exactly are you planning on doing about that then, Danielle? Use your magical cunt powers to seduce him?” he asks with a smirk, trying make himself look like he’s doing something or at least fool himself into doing so.

Eleanor raises her eyebrows, before she starts to laugh, at which point Danielle glares at her. It’s never been something that they’ve tried to hide, the fact that Zayn and Danielle don’t care for one another, but in a place like this, everyone learns to co-exist with one another. When you all have a mutual enemy, there’s no point in having other ones. “Don’t sound so bitter, babe. I’ll explain every steamy detail to you. Won’t be as good at having the real thing, but as close as you’ll ever get,” she says nastily, before patting his cheek like he’s some kind of animal and throwing her dark curls over her shoulder. Zayn watches as she grabs onto Eleanor’s hand, the two of them sauntering up to the table, only tearing his eyes away as he watches her crawl into his lap, wrapping one of the many ringlets that frame his face around her finger.

Thursday nights are never exciting. It’s not as if Zayn is lacking people to take back to his room, but he’s not exactly in high demand either. He’s covering behind the bar while Niall sneaks outside to call his girlfriend, touching the raw corners of his mouth lightly, only to look up and find him, the guy from before sitting in front of him at one of the stools, the same smile on his face that Zayn could see all the way from across the room before - before Danielle had gone over there. “Hello,” he says cheerily, resting his elbow on the bartop and cradling his chin in his hand, his halo of curls bouncing slightly as he does.

“Hey. Can I get you something?” Zayn offers simply, wiping down the countertop as if his life depends on it, making a note to himself to not look at him in fear of ending up staring at him for too long like before.

With a shake of his head, the other boy laughs, making an indiscrete gesture with a wave of his hand. “No, I don’t really drink. Although I’m wondering if I should start. I guess this is what happens when I tell my friends to surprise me when it come to doing something for my birthday. I can’t help but feel they’re trying to tell me something by bringing me here...” he replies, so many different expressions crossing his faces that it’s almost impossible for Zayn to keep up. The other boy is babbling, but instead of it being annoying, it’s endearing. He can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips, the dish towel sitting still under his hands as he picks up his head to meet his gaze.

“Your friends brought you here for your birthday? I’d look into getting some new friends, mate,” Zayn responds with a shake of his head, and he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, because he’s having a conversation with someone that’s not revolving around sex, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t know how to do that anymore. He doesn’t know how to do anything unless sex is the outcome.

With a shrug, he sits forwards a bit. “Meh, I’m having fun right now, and I’m pretty sure they’re having fun with those two girls that came over to the table before,” he shrugs off, before his eyes drops a bit, motioning to the long lines of tattoos that cover Zayn’s arm. “That’s pretty cool, how long did that take you to get done?”

He glances down at his arm, at the tattoos covering his forearms. “This? Not too long,” he replies, before he looks back up and notices that Demi’s watching them with an interested expression on her face. Suddenly there’s a nervous anxiety sitting on his stomach, because he’s not working, he’s not making any sales or sucking any dick or fucking, and if he’s not doing any of that, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He bites at his lower lip, lazily scratching at his neck. He fiddles with the collar of his shirt, exposing the ink on his collarbone as if by accident, before he glances back up at the boy with a smirk. His eyes are lingering on the sliver of skin that Zayn had just shown him. “That’s all you’re going to get for free,” he says, the tone of his voice dropping into the ugly, husky sounding one he uses to tell guys that they’re the best he’s ever had with the coy smile on his face, turning him into someone else. “So. Is there anything else I can get you?” he asks, dropping the towel as he notices Niall next to him, looking between the two of them curiously but not saying a single thing.

When all Zayn gets in reply is silence, he steps down from the bar and starts to make his ways back to the center of the room, forcing himself not to look back, but a strong hand that somehow manages to be gentle as it wraps itself around his wrist stops him in his tracks. He stops, turning around slowly, confused and breathless and nervous all at once.

“Yes, there is something else you can get me,” the other boy replies, standing up from his stool, hand still holding onto Zayn’s wrist, pulling him in closer to his body, leaving Zayn speechless.

* * *

 

“You want to what?”

Zayn is standing at the door in his room, shutting it behind them and looking incredulously at Liam - who he’s just introduced himself as a moment ago, not that it matters because Zayn knows that after tonight, it’s not going to matter. Liam shrugs, sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck before he looks down. “I figured we could keep talking. I liked doing that before at the bar. And if it happens to lead to some...making out, I would not be opposed. Why? Is that - is that a bad thing?”

He doesn’t know whether he should burst out laughing or wonder what the hell is going on inside of this boy’s head. He crosses the room in a few strides, standing in front of Liam as he crosses his arms, and he can’t help but wonder if he should be offended by the fact that he doesn’t want to have sex. No one has ever not wanted to fuck Zayn at any chance they could. “Let me get this straight,” he asks bluntly, before he gets up onto the bed and straddles Liam without a word, firmly bracing his hands against his shoulders as he plants his knees on each side of the other boy’s hips, staring at him intently. He can immediately see the apprehension in Liam’s face, but he doesn’t back down, which only makes Zayn want to break him even more, show him how wrong he is. He wants Liam to realize that what he’s doing is pointless and no matter how many people have tried it before, it never works. No one ever just wants to talk to him, no one ever wants to carry on a conversation with him unless it involves them getting something out of it, whether it’s money or a blowjob or a quick fuck.

“You want to talk to me? You want to pay to talk to me, when there are plenty of other things that you could be doing - plenty of other things we could be doing,” he taunts, rolling his hips against the other boys slowly and teasingly. If it was anyone else, he’d think he was crazy for pushing the limit like this, basically asking for it, but the fact that he’s doing this is also terrifying him, because it’s dangerous and he knows it. There’s a sense of comfort there, though, like this is someone that Zayn has known all his life rather than someone he’s met only moments ago. He feels, rather than sees, as Liam’s hands comes to rest at the small of his back, big and strong and warm and holding him there, and he watches as he takes his lower lips between his teeth, biting at it with a crease of tension across his forehead.

With a smirk on his face, Zayn pushes him back against the bed. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered, lowering himself to kneel on the floor and pull Liam’s jeans off. He can hear the faint bits of protest that the other boy is trying to offer up, feels the hands at his shoulders trying to push him off, but he ignores it, because he clearly doesn’t know what he’s thinking. By the time Zayn is done, he’ll be thanking him. He pushes the fabric over his hips and hooking his thumbs in the band of his boxers, pulling them down as well.

“Fuck,” is all he can hear, Liam’s voice labored and breathy, the hands that were resting on his shoulders coming up to thread through the tufts of his hair. Zayn looks up at him through his eyelashes, biting at the smooth skin of his inner thigh as he wraps a hand around the base of his cock, before he takes Liam completely in his mouth. He can hear the string of soft noises that Liam’s making as he hollows his cheeks, swirling his tongue over the tip. He relaxes, taking down whatever else he couldn’t get before, and bracing his hands against his hips as they start to lift off of the mattress, pushing them back down forcefully.

It’s detached and awkward and messy and over much sooner than Zayn is accustomed to (and sooner than he’d like to admit), Liam hitting his release with a low moan, but it’s still sex and it’s what Zayn gets paid to do, and that’s all that matters, as he like the world is back in order once again. He pulls back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, only then realizing that the other boy’s hand is still softly carding through his hair like before. The feeling leaves Zayn uneasy, at which point he stands up and steps back, looking at Liam who’s watching him. He feels guilty all of a sudden, like he forced the boy into doing something he didn’t want to, but it’s his job, it’s what he’s supposed to do, it’s what he has to do. “That was...good,” Liam eventually says, pulling his pants back up and sitting up.

Zayn struggles for words for a moment, all the confidence he had moments ago suddenly withering away, before he looks down at the ground. “Leave the money on the table, okay?” he mutters, motioning to the bedside table, before he shifts uncomfortably on his feet and steps outside of the room, unable to look at the uncomfortably torn expression on Liam’s face any longer.

Later that evening - well, technically early the next morning considering what time it is - when they’re getting ready to close up from the day, Demi comes up to him and hands him a crisp one hundred dollar bill. Zayn stares at it in shock for what feels like an hour, before he looks back up at Demi. “What is this?” he asks quietly.

The expression on her face is almost unreadable, but Zayn knows her well by now, and he can see the amusement behind her eyes, almost like they’re glowing. “Someone named Liam Payne left that for you with me,” she replies simply, although this is anything but simple considering that this is more money than Zayn usually makes in one entire night, and a busy night at that.

“You didn’t take out your part, though,” he stammers dumbly, at which she simply shakes her head.

“He paid, remember? You gave it to me already, Malik. This is just for you,” she points out, flipping her dark hair, now with hot pink ends over her shoulder. “You must be doing something right by the likes of him,” she says lightly, before she turns away and goes back into her office.

When Zayn’s alone later in his tiny apartment, he simply stares at the money, running his fingers over the crisp outline over it and reminding himself that this isn’t a dream. He ends up spending the money on some new shirts and a art book he’s been wanting to read for a while, stashing it alongside all of his other ones under his mattress. But now that the money’s gone, it definitely feels like more of a dream, because he’s almost positive that he’s never going to see Liam Payne again. He knows who he is, and he’s alright with that. He’s a slut, a whore, a body that provides a convenient hole to fuck. And for someone like Liam Payne, who in that one blissful, terrible confusion of a night had shown that he’s quite possibly the epitome of everything that’s good in the world, Zayn is not what he needs.

Which is why he can’t understand why he shows up again a few days later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of the lovely feedback so far, it is always much appreciated! xx :)


	4. Chapter 4

It’s late in his shift, a Thursday night that just never seems to want to come to a close. Zayn is aware that it’s most likely only a little past midnight, but it feels like he’s been going for days at this point, his whole body is starting to hurt in a way that it doesn’t normally. When he finally steps out of his rooms once again, he rakes a hand through his hair, running a hand over his face in a desperate attempt to try and keep his composure together, because he’s still got three more hours on the clock but it’s not like it’s the easiest thing to walk out of a room after being called slut, whore, desperate, fag.   
  
For every easygoing guy there was that walked in just looking for a chance to get off easily without any strings attached or without any sense of attachment, there was five more that were desperate to make things hell, enjoying the power that they had over someone that they believed was completely below them but was still worthy enough to fuck. Zayn knows where all the scars on his body are, he can remember all the times he’s had to clench his hands into the fabrics of the sheets underneath him to make himself just lie there and listen to what was being said to him without any reply, he can think back to the few times that he’s broken down after an exchange, he can count all the times he’s been to the emergency room. Understanding who he is is one thing, but having it shown to him from someone else is completely different, whether they do it with their words or with their fist. Someone who’s contributing to it, no less... all by someone he would never even give the time of day to if it wasn’t for a job like this.   
  
Zayn tries to stretch, hoping the ache in his body will dissipate, running his hands over his wrists that are sore from being pinned down to the mattress for the past half hour, the side of his face scraped to all hell from fingernails pressing his face down against the rough scratch of the mattress underneath him. His body feels boneless, weak all over, but as he continues walking into the crowd of the room it just tightens, and all he wants at this point is to go home and go to sleep for the next day and a half.  Rough nights are few and far between, yet when they happen, it’s never easy to deal with, even for someone who’s been working here for a while like hi.   
  
He wraps an arm across his waist, trying to stand up as straight as possible, before taking a deep breath and looking all around him onto the floor, where there’s dozens of men already around. Men who couldn’t care less about who they’re fucking - who these people are, where this money is going, or what happens these people once the night is over, as long as they get their fill. It’s disgusting, and Zayn knows it, but he still has to spread his legs for them, letting them fuck him as hard as they can into the mattress and hold him down and telling them how much he enjoys it over and over. He hates himself for it. He hates himself that he’s fallen so deep, that this is what he’s allowed himself to become.  
  
When he finally makes it over the other side of the room, the flat rate for the services and nothing else in his pocket, he wanders into Demi’s office, trying to swallow down whatever bile had risen into his throat from before and shake it off. He drops off the money onto her desk without a word, not wanting to talk at the moment, trying to slip out of the room and back into the crown as unnoticed as possible, but before he can make his way across the room, there’s a hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump.  
  
Liam’s standing there, his smile quickly dropping into a look of concern, one that Zayn wants nothing more than to wipe away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, are you alright?” he asks, his hand resting lightly against Zayn’s shoulder, his brows drawn together as he starts scanning Zayn’s face, as if he was searching for something.   
  
Zayn quickly shoves the hand off, quickly turning his face away from Liam and walking away. He’s trying to act as calm as possible, trying to pull off normality and hoping that he’ll leave Zayn alone, but he can feel his presence right behind him still. “What are you doing here? Wanted to come and _talk_ again, really liked that conversation?” he mutters sarcastically, walking behind the counter and grabbing a glass and pouring himself a double vodka. His hands are still trembling around the bottle as he pours, almost in the way that it matches his heart still pounding heavily in his chest. He feels Liam’s eyes on him the entire time, knowing that the other boy is watching and waiting patiently, and more than anything, isn’t going anywhere. Zayn drinks the liquor quickly, before dropping his hands underneath the top of the bar out of sight.  
  
“Just wanted to see how everything was going,” Liam replies evenly, a faint expression of amusement on his face, but Zayn can still see the muted look of concern lingering behind his eyes, until he blinks and it’s like it was never there. Zayn doesn’t know how to respond, because why would he be back, why would a person come back to a place like this when they didn’t even intend to come in the first place, not to mention the fact that they didn’t even have sex?   
  
That must be why he’s back again, Zayn realizes slowly. Because he actually wants sex this time, because he saw exactly what he can get out of Zayn, exactly what he can make him do, and he actually wants to take him up on it this time. Feeling like someone’s s just pulled the rug out completely from underneath him, the look of concern that he had seen in the Liam’s eyes before obviously a mistake, Zayn nods once before he drops his glass behind the counter and motions back to his room with a wave of his hand. He grabs at the sleeve of Liam’s shirt, eventually wrapping his hand loosely around his wrist and pulling him through the crowds of people, trying to ignore the heaviness that’s settled into his stomach.  
  
He shuts the door behind the two of them, looking at the floor, at his feet, at the walls, at anywhere but Liam until he realizes that he can’t exactly do this without looking at him. Well, technically he can, considering face down seems to go over well with a lot of the guys now, but he’d rather not repeat that again if he could. “So,” he mumbles, before reaching for the hem of his own shirt and stripping it off of him, throwing it aside. Liam looks at him confused for a moment from where he’s standing next to the bed, and that only confuses Zayn more, because if he wants to have sex, how the fuck are they going to do it without him being naked? “Let’s do this,” he muttered, running a hand over his hair, only realizing now that as it gets stuck there’s probably something sticky in his hair that’s definitely not gel, making him grimace.  
  
A long moment of silence passes between the two of them, Liam just watching him curiously, before he takes a step forward, reaching down and grabbing Zayn’s shirt off the floor and holding it out to him to take. “Put it back on. I’m not here to - to do _that_ with you,” he murmurs carefully, but Zayn just looks at the shirt, before back up at Liam, because he doesn’t understand. Why else is he here, unless it’s to have sex with him? Why else would anyone be here, unless it’s to have sex with him. Why else would anyone be giving a shit about him unless it had to do with having sex with him?   
  
“You don’t want to fuck me?” Zayn asks, his voice smaller and quieter than it should be. As soon as the question leaves his mouth, he wishes he could take it back. Because it sounds stupid, like he’s desperate for it, like he’s everything that these guys have been painting him out to be, like he’s offended that Liam doesn’t want to fuck him. And maybe it was supposed to come out that way, because that’s what he is, isn’t he? That’s all he hears all the time, that he’s a desperate little slut just begging to be fucked all the time. “I don’t - I don’t understand...”  
  
Liam is still holding the shirt out to him, shaking it slightly, before he shakes his head. “Nope, not interested,” he mutters, looking down at the fabric in his hands. Judging by the fact that Liam flushes scarlet at the question, Zayn is wondering if that’s really the god’s honest truth. But he doesn’t have a chance to answer, as Liam readjusts the shirt in his hands, finding the opening of it before he pulls it over Zayn’s head, the gesture feeling far more intimate than it probably should. He takes a seat on the bed, motioning for Zayn to sit down next to him. Zayn has half a heart to let him know that just sitting and doing nothing on sheets covering in god knows what probably isn’t the way he should be spending his Thursday night, nor is it what Zayn should be doing, but his whole body is aching in protest, and the bed looks comfortable enough, just to sit for now.   
  
“So what do you want if you don’t want sex, then?” he says bluntly, pulling his arms into the holes of his shirt, before he looks down at his hands, just to give himself something else to focus on. This is awkward, uncomfortable even, because he doesn’t know how to interact like this. Sucking someone’s dick, fine, he can do that. But having a conversation with someone is a different story.  
  
“I wanted to see how you are. Can’t friends do that for each other?” Liam asks, grabbing onto Zayn’s arm gently and pulling him further back onto the bed, despite the fact he had specifically left a good amount of space between the two of them. Not expecting the grab, Zayn tumbles forward, ending up falling back against the cheap oversized pillows that make up the back of the bed.   
  
“Since when are we friends?” Zayn points out, raising an eyebrow, resting his hands on his stomach, scratching at it softly. Liam shifts down on the bed more, leaning up on one of his elbows so that he’s looking down at Zayn, the two of them face to face, and Zayn swears that he’s only imagining the warm brush of peppermint across his cheek.  
  
“Since I decided that I wanted to be your friend,” he replies, as if it’s the simplest thing to know.   
  
Zayn snorts inelegantly, running a hand over his face, looking up at the other boy. “You definitely know how to have a good time with your friends, then,” he mutters. “You let all your friends suck your dick, or is that like a rite of passage?” he blurts out, and he realizes now that he’s being an asshole, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He can’t think of anything else to say, because he can’t remember the last time he’s had a normal conversation with someone that wasn’t about his job.  
  
Liam, though, takes it with a grain of salt and simply smiles and shrugs. “Only the important ones.” He pauses, before he looks up at Zayn’s hair and runs a hand through it, the blunt edges of his fingernails loosely running against his scalp continuously. He wants to reach up and smack his hand away, swear at him, maybe offer to suck his dick once again in hopes that his mind has changed, but his body feels like it’s melting into the mattress as the fingers continue across his hair, suddenly too drowsy to move.   
  
Blinking for a moment, he looks at Liam before he quickly shrinks back, trying to pull away from the touch. He doesn’t know what’s happening, because he’s honestly scared right now. He can handle sex with strangers and threats of violence and being his only person to count on - but this, this he can’t. The other boy just keeps on smiling and nods his head only once, as if to say that it was okay. “It’s alright,” he says quietly. “You’re safe. I promise.”   
  
Promises mean nothing to Zayn, because promises mean friends saying they’ll be there for you and social workers who’ll keep you safe and good men who will listen to you and stop when you say no, but at this promise he can only nod. He swallows quietly, trying to shove whatever apprehension there’s left down, before he closes the space between them once again and loosely grabs onto the fabric of Liam’s shirt in his fingers.   
  
Pulling himself in closer to the other boy’s body and just taking a deep breath as he feels the warmth all around him, washing over him slowly and tenderly. He can feel the light press of fingers running up and down over his spine, soothingly over the fabric of his shirt. It’s slow and light and careful, and with every passing moment, his eyelids are growing heavier. Everything is telling him that he needs to get up and stop this, tell Liam to just get the fuck out of here and not come back again, because this is something that he definitely can’t do, not to mention something that Liam definitely shouldn’t be doing, but he can’t bring himself to.   
  
Because for the first time since Zayn can remember, he feels _safe_. “Liam,” he mumbles, his voice thick with the exhaustion that he can’t try to fight off anymore.   
  
“Hmm?” the other boy mumbles quietly, his hand still trailing up and down over Zayn’s back gently, other one still softly carding through his hair. It’s obvious to Zayn now that this was exactly what the other boy had been planning from the start, but he still can’t understand why.   
  
“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for any bit of feedback like always. It might be a bit longer until the next update, seeing as I plan on doing some major revisions to all the work I have done, as I don't like what I have written so far, but it'll be worth the wait, I promise! xx :)


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